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I Can Dress Myself

I have been doing so for approximately 29 years. While I have been, at various times in my life — see: ages 4 and 19 — rather nonchalant about this thing we call “matching,” mostly, I have got this shit down.

Also, particularly when dressing for the general public — as in, walking or running on a street — I am allowed to dress myself how I please.

Therefore.

If I am wearing something low-cut, bum-hugging, or midriff-baring —

You are entitled to notice or not, to look or not, to approve or not.

What you are not entitled to do is decide that your disapproval of my belly or butt or boobs is sufficient grounds to dictate how I dress.

“I don’t want to see it,” people say.

So don’t look.

You can think this is unreasonable running attire. You can’t keep me from wearing it.

Here’s the thing: In a lot of contexts — schools, offices, restaurants, stores — I do a lot of work to cover myself up. It goes above and beyond basic modesty and to the facts that a lot of people aren’t comfortable with women’s bodies or with fat bodies — and certainly not with women who own their fat bodies. So I layer tops. I buy higher-waisted, looser-hipped pants. I accept that knee length is my version of an exceptionally short skirt.

It’s not that I never think of your pearl-clutching comfort.

Just not always.

And so, when I dress myself in order to run my streets, I really don’t care if you like what you see. In this small space, your comfort is not my priority.